Chris and I wake up to his alarm going off at seven.
Well.
Chris wakes up.
I'm already awake.
He lays there grumbling at the ceiling for a full minute before moving.
I smile.
He hates mornings.
Always has.
By the time I make it down the hall, Maddie is already awake too.
She's standing in front of her dresser wearing a giant pink dress.
A giant pink dress.
The poofy monstrosity Grammie's best friend brought back from Mexico.
Tulle.
Sequins.
Enough fabric to clothe a small village.
"Maddie."
She looks up proudly.
"I pretty."
"You are."
"I know."
I bite back a laugh.
"Princess, you can't wear that to Grammie's."
"I can."
"Maddie."
"I CAN."
I stare at her.
She stares back.
The battle is lost.
"Fine."
Victory flashes across her face.
"But you're packing shorts, a t-shirt, and sneakers."
She immediately begins stuffing random clothing into her pink purse.
Good enough.
I move on to the next battle.
Topher.
"Tofu."
A groan comes from beneath the blankets.
"Time to get up, baby."
Another groan.
"I know. But it's Friday."
One eye appears.
"Just today."
That finally does it.
By the time I get back to my room, Chris is brushing his teeth.
I join him.
We exchange a quick toothpaste kiss.
A terrible tradition.
Neither of us seems willing to stop.
Chris says goodbye to the kids and heads to work.
An hour later, Topher is running into school for breakfast.
His camouflage backpack looks bigger than he is.
"Bye, Mommy! Love you!"
"I love you too!"
I wave until he disappears inside.
At least he's still young enough to love me in public.
Maddie and I make the short drive to my mother-in-law's house.
Before I can even knock, the front door swings open.
My daughter launches herself from my arms.
My mother-in-law catches her without missing a beat.
"Madeline! Grammy is so excited to see you."
Maddie immediately begins explaining her cookie plans for the day.
It sounds like she's intending to put every ingredient in the kitchen into a single batch.
My mother-in-law nods seriously through the entire explanation.
"Why don't you go pick out a book for us to read first?"
Maddie takes off down the hallway.
The second she's gone, my mother-in-law looks me over.
Not rude.
Not friendly.
Just... assessing.
I know that look.
I've known it for years.
Comfortable shorts.
Navy t-shirt.
Hair pulled back.
Clothes I don't mind getting dirty.
"So," she says, "you never told me where you're cleaning."
There it is.
I smile.
My best bless-your-heart smile.
"Oh, just helping an old friend."
She nods.
Apparently satisfied with that answer.
Or deciding it isn't worth asking more questions.
Either way, it works for me.
Ten minutes later I'm driving toward the trailer.
I turn on the radio for the drive to the trailer.
It's only about ten minutes.
Just enough time for the universe to decide it hates me.
Sweetness on My Tongue starts playing.
I immediately start laughing.
Oh no.
Not again.
Ashton's face yesterday had been absolutely priceless.
Complete horror.
Like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.
Why was he so embarrassed?
The song is everywhere.
Every radio station in America is playing it.
I think it's number one right now.
You can't escape it.
Besides, it's not exactly subtle.
The entire thing is basically three and a half minutes of Ashton announcing to the world that he enjoys sex.
A lot.
The lyrics are raunchy enough that even I know exactly what he's talking about.
Not every line.
Some of them get weirdly poetic.
But most of it?
Not exactly difficult to interpret.
Which somehow makes his embarrassment even funnier.
What did he think was going to happen?
Did he expect people to hear the line about fruit running down somebody's mouth and assume it was about healthy eating habits?
I snort.
Maybe I should've sung louder yesterday.
The memory of him nearly drowning himself with bottled water makes me laugh all over again.
For somebody who performs in front of thousands of people, Ashton Rhodes is surprisingly easy to embarrass.
I change the station before the chorus starts.
Mostly because I don't need that song stuck in my head all day.
The morning show is talking about some celebrity breakup.
I barely listen.
Instead I'm still laughing about yesterday.
The look on his face had been worth every second.
When I pull up to the trailer, Ashton is already there.
Which is surprising.
He has never been a morning person.
Not once in his entire life.
I climb out of my van and grin.
"Morning, butt face."
His eyes go wide.
Then he starts laughing.
A real laugh.
Not the polite kind.
Not the famous kind.
The kind that folds him in half a little.
"You do realize I can't change my face?"
I shrug.
"Yeah. Doesn't stop you from having a butt face."
For the record, the insult is entirely justified.
He has the tiniest cleft in his chin.
A tiny little butt right in the middle of his face.
"You are literally the only person on earth who calls me that."
"Somebody has to keep that massive ego under control."
He snorts.
"I'll let my therapist know."
We both laugh.
Then he holds up a paper sack.
And a latte.
I immediately forget every insult I've ever had.
"Oh my gosh."
His grin widens.
"Oh my gosh?"
"You're an angel."
"I thought I was a butt face."
"You can be both."
I take the bag from him.
Inside is my favorite breakfast sandwich.
My favorite latte.
And—
I gasp.
"A container of pickles."
I hold it up like buried treasure.
His smile gets even bigger.
"There's an empty one in my car."
"What?"
"I already ate all mine."
I stare at him.
"You ate an entire container of pickles before eight in the morning?"
"Yes."
"That's concerning."
"They were delicious."
I immediately shove one into my mouth.
"Oh my gosh."
"See?"
"Oh my gosh."
"I know."
"The best."
"I know."
He points at me.
"And now you understand why I have pickle breath."
I wave him off.
"I survived cleaning your mother's refrigerator. I think I'll survive pickle breath."
"Fair."
I take another pickle.
Then another.
Ashton shakes his head.
"You haven't changed."
I smile around a mouthful of pickle.
Neither have you.
I finish my breakfast while Ashton cleans up the wrappers.
I'm not about to tell him that I eat here more often than I probably should.
At least once a week.
Maybe.
Possibly.
The point is that I haven't had my fix this week, so this is basically perfect.
Ashton is digging around in his car when he suddenly holds something up.
"Aha."
It's a pickle.
A lone pickle.
Apparently abandoned by its people.
He tosses it at me.
I catch it automatically.
Do I immediately eat it?
Yes.
Before anybody judges me, these pickles are incredible.
They make them at the restaurant.
They're garlicky and crunchy and probably addictive.
I pop it into my mouth.
Ashton freezes.
"Oh my God."
I continue chewing.
"Lou."
I shrug.
"Lou."
"What?"
"Did you just eat a floor pickle?"
I finish chewing.
"It wasn't on the floor."
"It was absolutely on the floor."
"It was near the floor."
"It was under my passenger seat."
"Which is basically a shelf."
He stares at me.
I stare back.
"You are disgusting."
I gasp dramatically.
"That's hurtful."
"It was on the floor!"
I point at his car.
"They clean these things better than I clean my van."
"That is not the defense you think it is."
I wave him off.
"It was fine."
"It was a floor pickle."
"It was a delicious floor pickle."
He laughs so hard he has to lean against the car.
"Oh my God."
I point at him.
"Excuse you."
"What?"
"You're the one who was about to smoke seven-year-old ditch weed that you found in your dresser."
His mouth falls open.
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because—"
He stops.
I wait.
He waits.
Neither of us has an answer.
Finally I cross my arms.
"Exactly."
He groans.
"I can't believe you're making me defend ancient weed against floor pickles."
"Life comes at you fast, butt face."
That sets him off laughing all over again.
I follow Ashton back into the trailer.
It already smells better than it did yesterday.
Yesterday it smelled like cigarettes, rotten food, mildew, regret, and possibly death.
Today it's mostly just cigarettes and a little rotten food.
Progress.
We left all the windows open overnight.
The place aired out surprisingly well.
Unfortunately it's already pushing eighty degrees outside.
September in Kansas is rude like that.
I fan myself dramatically.
"Ashton, we should turn on the air conditioner because I don't want to sweat from places we don't need to discuss."
He laughs.
"I don't even know if the air conditioner works."
There's only one window unit for the entire trailer.
The thing is older than both of us.
He flips it on.
The machine immediately coughs out a cloud of dust, smoke, and what might have been part of a dead civilization.
No cold air.
"Well."
"Well."
I point at it.
"I think it's dead."
"I think it died before my mother did."
I snort.
"Walmart got a pallet of window units in."
He looks at me.
"We could grab two. One for the kitchen. One for the living room. At least make this place survivable."
He sighs dramatically.
"Fine."
Then he points at my van.
"But we're taking my vehicle."
I gasp.
"Excuse you?"
"I will not be seen driving around in a minivan."
I place a hand over my heart.
"That is incredibly rude."
He grins.
"Sonic can survive without me."
I glare.
The rental vehicle is nice.
Way nicer than my van.
But that's not the point.
"First of all, her name is Sonic."
"Of course it is."
"Second of all, she's blue."
I wiggle my eyebrows.
"And third, she is clearly the fastest minivan in the world."
We're already pulling out of the driveway when he starts laughing.
"You always kicked my ass at Sonic."
"Because I am gifted."
"You cheated."
"I was talented."
He shakes his head.
I smile out the window.
For years we'd spent afternoons at my house playing video games.
Sometimes with Adam.
Sometimes with my dad.
My dad loved video games.
Which meant we had decent systems and a decent television.
Nothing fancy.
But better than the tiny box television Ashton had growing up.
I smile at the memory.
Those afternoons had been some of the best parts of being a kid.
We get lucky and find a parking spot close to the front of Walmart.
I jump out first and immediately grab a cart.
Ashton rolls his eyes.
"You know I can push the cart."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you're carrying the air conditioners."
He sighs.
I hear something that sounds suspiciously like "little shit."
I choose to ignore the fact that I am definitely not little anymore.
If anything, I'm a medium-sized shit.
Possibly a large one.
Twenty minutes later the cart contains:
Two air conditioners.
Two cases of bottled water.
Several cases of soda.
Ibuprofen.
Because apparently we're ninety years old.
I stare at the cart.
"We forgot something."
Ashton looks concerned.
I lead him directly to the adult incontinence aisle.
He immediately stops walking.
"No."
"Oh yes."
"No."
I grab a package of men's Depends and toss them into the cart.
He stares at me.
I stare back.
Dead serious.
"These are for you, old man."
The look on his face is worth every penny.
He puts the Depends back on the shelf, grumbling the entire time.
"I'm twenty-five."
"Mhm."
"I'm not old."
"Mhm."
"I hate you."
"You'll live."
He snorts.
As we wander toward the checkout, he looks around the store.
"It's weird."
"What is?"
"Seeing so much stuff in Walmart."
I blink.
"What?"
"I haven't been inside one in years."
Now that surprises me.
"I don't remember groceries being in Walmart."
"Oh."
I smile.
"Yeah, they've really expanded."
He looks around again.
"That's actually kind of convenient."
"It is."
I shrug.
"The only bad part is our grocery store on Main Street closed last year. They couldn't compete."
His smile fades a little.
"That's sad."
"It'll probably be the death of little towns."
He nods.
"I believe it."
We check out and head back outside.
Before I can grab a case of water, Ashton gently nudges my hand away.
"I got it."
"I can carry things."
"I know."
"So..."
"So sit."
I roll my eyes dramatically.
"Bossy."
He grins.
"You'll survive."
I climb into the passenger seat while he loads both air conditioners, the water, the soda, and everything else into the car.
When he finally gets behind the wheel, he immediately pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
I clear my throat.
He looks over.
"Oh."
He holds the pack toward me.
"Want one?"
I stare at him.
"Seriously?"
"What?"
"I haven't smoked since high school, Ashton."
He blinks.
"You quit?"
"I was never really a smoker."
I shrug.
"I mostly smoked because you did."
He slowly slides the cigarette back into the pack.
"...Huh."
"I know."
"I guess I never thought about that."
"I don't think either of us did."
He starts the car.
"Fine."
He pats the pack.
"I'm definitely smoking one when we get back to the trailer though."
I laugh.
"I haven't worked this hard in years."
I look over at him.
For somebody who constantly complains, he isn't exactly out of shape.
Before I can stop myself, the question flies out.
"So... do you pay somebody to make you do crunches?"
We stop at a stop sign.
He turns toward me.
Blinks once.
Twice.
Then absolutely loses it laughing.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"I actually do."
"What?"
"I have a trainer."
"You have a trainer?"
"Every day at one."
He nods solemnly.
"I hate him."
I start laughing.
"He comes to my house and makes sure I actually work out."
"So he just stands there yelling at you?"
"Sometimes."
"And sometimes?"
"Sometimes he physically makes me get off the couch."
"I'm crying."
"It's not funny."
"It's hilarious."
"I even have a gym in my house."
I laugh harder.
"You have a gym..."
"Yep."
"...and you pay somebody to make you use it?"
"Correct."
He sighs dramatically.
"Honestly, all the guys work out together now. It's kind of become our thing."
We pull back into the trailer park.
I'm still laughing.
"So what do you listen to?"
"Huh?"
"When you work out."
I grin.
"Don't tell me."
He raises an eyebrow.
"I already know."
"Oh?"
"Trashy two-thousands Britney Spears."
He looks deeply offended.
"I'll have you know..."
I wait.
"...that's Sage."
I burst out laughing.
"I knew it!"
"They occasionally sneak Britney onto the playlist."
"And?"
"The rest of us complain every single time."
"So what do you listen to?"
"Everybody brings their own burned CDs."
I smile.
That somehow feels exactly right.
He keeps going.
"I'm honestly not sure what's worse."
"Sage's pop princess playlist..."
He pauses dramatically.
"...or Dean's nineties country."
"Oh no."
"I swear he owns a flannel specifically for working out."
I laugh all the way back to the trailer.
Some things, apparently, fame doesn't fix.
By the time we finish installing the second air conditioner, the trailer is actually comfortable.
Cool air.
Cold bottled water.
Almost civilized.
Ashton stretches.
"I'm coming back for a third one."
I laugh.
"For your room?"
He wrinkles his nose.
"Absolutely not."
He points toward the back of the trailer.
"I just want it cold while we're working back there."
"Fair enough."
I pull my flip phone out of my pocket to check the time.
One o'clock.
Ashton looks over.
Then starts laughing.
"What?"
"Lou..."
"What?"
"That thing is ancient."
I look down at my phone.
"It works."
"It belongs in a museum."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the strangest phone I've ever seen.
It doesn't have a single button.
I stare at it.
"...Where are the buttons?"
He grins.
"There aren't any."
"How do you call people?"
"You touch the screen."
I blink.
"That's stupid."
"It is not."
"It is."
"It's an iPhone."
"A what?"
"An iPhone."
"It just came out in June."
He taps the glass and everything starts moving.
I lean closer.
"...Okay."
"...That's actually really cool."
"I know."
I shake my head.
"I don't trust it."
He laughs.
"You sound eighty."
"I feel eighty."
I glance back down at my phone.
"Oh."
"I've got to head out around two."
"So soon?"
"I've got a baseball game."
He nods.
"Oh yeah."
"Topher's t-ball?"
"No."
I shake my head.
"It's AJ's game."
He frowns.
"Who's AJ?"
I open my mouth.
Pause.
Oh.
Right.
He doesn't know.
Not because I was keeping it from him.
Just...
Because where do you even start with something like that?
"AJ's my oldest."
He stares at me.
"...Your oldest?"
"Yeah."
"Adam James."
His expression changes.
Just a little.
"He's six and a half."
Silence.
"You..."
Another silence.
"You have another son?"
"Yeah."
I nod.
"He lives with Ethan and Chuck."
The words come out naturally.
The way they always do.
"My biological son."
His face goes completely still.
I can almost see the gears turning.
Adam.
Six and a half.
February.
He isn't looking at me anymore.
He's somewhere else.
Somewhere seven years ago.
I rub the back of my neck.
"...Yeah."
I let out a small breath.
"So..."
"We should probably talk before I leave."